Bueno

The "Last-minute Odds and Ends Shopping List"
- Red Wine
- Fruit
- Large pitcher
- Chicken
- Green Pepper

In the middle of the wine section at our local neighborhood supermarket conglomerate, Beth and I walked along countless shelves of wine bottles. Shiraz, syrah, zinfandel, cabernet, merlot, cabernet sauvignon, pinot noir.

"What kind do we need?"

I leaned down to look at the label of one bottle of Thirsty Lizard. An appropriately parched reptile held a wine glass while half-climbing a rock. Taste be damned, part of me just wanted that bottle in my home. "Um, the recipe said red. Didn't specify." I picked up the bottle, stared at it wistfully for a moment before setting it back down. "I thought I saw one recipe say Zinfandel, but it didn't specify red or white. And white zinfandel is pretty red on its own, so I don't know." I half contemplated calling Chuck at home to ask which variety he thought would be best, as he's the Casa de Raca wine conosseur.

We'd planned on celebrating Cinco de Mayo, but my pattern of unpredictable hours struck again, rendering me unavailable during prime Cinco celebration time. Rather than abandon the plans, we decided to move it up a day. Quatro de Mayo or, as I preferred, Cinco de Mayo (Observed).

Excited, I decided to apply my culinary skills for the event. DIY Chipotle and, a first for me, home-made sangria.* How hard could it be? Pour in wine, add fruit, sit overnight, serve and revel.

In my eagerness, I hadn't considered the 45 million varieties of red wine. Apparently neither did the recipe writers I found online. Bastards.

The merlot was a no-go - none of us were particular fans of it. The wine I'd brought home previously was no longer there - a pity, as we'd all enjoyed it immensely. Chianti just made me laugh, thinking of "Silence of the Lambs." Several potential bottles were eliminated strictly on the basis of the meal suggestions on the labels. Bacon-wrapped steak fillets? Pepper-crusted steak with pesto? Too much imagination, people.

Beth chuckled while looking at one particular bottle, so I made my way to look over her shoulder. Letters resembling a ransom note. This could be promising.

"It says 'Yo.' On the label. But I can't read much else."

"This is great!" I paused to read on. "OK, this is intense. This bottle has intimidated me. I don't know if we can take it on. At least, not in sangria."

Others had bits of prose and poetry, but didn't bother to inform a potential consumer on the wine's particular notes. I was thrilled to read of Jacob's trip into the mountains, wine-makers. Tell me what the damn thing tastes like. Bye bye.

We finally selected a chianti - I'm facing down my Hannibal Lecter demons - and made our way home, where I would later slice my fruit, pour dark red wine all over it in the pitcher purchased for the occasion and realize, per usual, that I'd forgotten one item on my list (the cruicial Chipotle component of green pepper). The sangria waits for us now to return after a long day's work for some siesta-styled celebration.

*Not to be confused with the Pimp Punch, the incredibly potent hot pink concoction of alcohol, soda and a massive amount of fruit consumed during a certain spring celebration senior year of college.